A Dining Experienceby Michael C. Keith

“You like the stew, boy?” asked the old man with missing teeth and a red knob for a nose seated across from us.

“It’s good,” I replied, gulping down a potato and carrot.

My dad eyed our fellow diner and nudged the side of my leg with his. That was his signal for me to be quiet.

“They don’t give you seconds here like they do at the Sally, but this here tastes better than what they give you over there.”

“Where’s the Salvation Army you’re talking about?” asked my father.

“Just about a mile up the road. You ain’t staying here tonight?”

“Not sure,” answered my father, and I knew we’d be hitting the road to the Sally after we ate. He didn’t like the look of the shelter and the homeless men in it.

“They might give the boy another helping. Could ask. Never know,” said the guy with the veiny schnoz.

“No, that’s okay. I think he has all he can handle already. Thanks, though.”

I bumped my dad’s leg to let him know that wasn't true. I was still hungry. He bumped my leg back, and I gave him an angry sideways glance. He arched his eyebrow in return, which was another signal for me to shut up.

“Kids got hollow legs, you know. He’s skinny but can probably out eat both of us.”

When I lifted my spoon from the depths of the bowl, something in it caught my eye . . . because it seemed to be moving.

“Dad, what’s this? I think it’s a bug.”

“Huh? What are you . . .?”

“Look, I think it’s a fly. Is that what it is, Dad? Still alive, too,” I said, holding the spoon near his face.

“No, it can’t be,” he replied, inspecting the object.

“Yeah, I bet it is,” commented the toothless man opposite us.

My father examined the spoon more closely and then advised me not to eat what was in it.

“Oh, go ahead, sonny. Just protein. They have bugs in the stew here all the time. Nothing to worry about. You probably ate a few already and didn’t even notice.”

Suddenly my stomach began to churn and what I’d just wolfed down gushed from my mouth.

“Now look what you gone and done, boy. Got puke all over my bread,” barked our tablemate, scraping my vomit from the crust near his bowl. “S’pose it won’t kill me, though . . . you being just a youngin.”

When the bum lifted it to his mouth, my father grabbed me by the arm and pulled me away from the bench we were sitting on.

“What are you doing, mister?” he growled.

“Eatin’ my dinner. What’s it look like?”

“C’mon, Mikey. Let’s get out of here. You’re disgusting, old man!”

“Excuse me, your lordship. Didn’t know we were dining at the Ritz,” he replied, running his dark tongue over his lips.

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About the Author

Originally from Albany, New York, Michael C. Keith has paternal family roots stretching back to Clan Keith of Caithness and Aberdeenshire. A leading scholar in electronic media in the United States, he is the author of over 20 books on electronic media, as well as a memoir and three books of fiction. Much more about Michael and his publications can be found on his website: http://www.michaelckeith.com